A Rose Grows in Hogsmeade
by Onceandfuturefangirl
Summary: Margaret Hale and her family moves North, to the town of Hogsmeade. Once there, she finds that the climate is less harsh than the people; particularly the brooding Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Will Margaret, and her glowing idealism, prevail?
1. Beginnings and Endings

It was the beginning of autumn, when the air still holds the memory of summer's warmth but the threat of winter's chill, and Margaret Hale did not wish to go to the North. Her mother and father had finally, after years of delay, given in to the inevitable. The family tried to scrape by in the Muggle world, but as the years wore on, they began to feel less and less at home with non-magic folk. There had been many tears, prayers, and postulating, but in the end, they went. Mr. Hale already had been offered a position at a prestigious wizarding school, and all that was left to do was pack.

"I still do not understand why Mr. Hale cannot simply apparate to the school and return to us in the evening."

Margaret replied, folding a gray coat into her trunk, "Mama, remember apparition is not permitted on school grounds. And it will be a great comfort to him if we are there."

Mrs. Hale sniffed delicately and continued her needlework. Margaret gazed mournfully out the window, breathing in the sweetly scented air. She sighed, murmuring, "But I shall miss Helstone exceedingly." It was, and always would remain, her childhood home. Helstone—green meadows blanketed in wildflowers stretching lazily to a rushing river. Dark trees stood in small, cool groves, inviting her to run and play amongst them as she as a child. But her childhood, she was painfully aware, had drawn to a close. It would end as soon as she left this place. She would never return to those golden, sunlit hours of youth.

Mrs. Hale cleared her throat, jerking Margaret back from nostalgia. "Dixon asked if you want a cup of tea, Margaret."

Dixon waited in the door, her bat-like ears quivering in anticipation. Margaret always had a distinct feeling the small, rotund house elf disliked her. Mrs. Hale had always been first in Dixon's affection, ever since she had been given as a wedding present to the aforesaid. Perhaps Margaret was not "worthy offspring" of the Dixon's mistress. Nevertheless, Margaret was determined to be gracious to the elf, and by her kindness, win her over.

Thus resolute, Margaret smiled radiantly at the elf. "Yes, please."

Dixon shuffled off, and Margaret bent her head over her trunk once more. She ran her hand over simple muslin dresses, and sighed. She did not possess much finery, which had never distressed her until she lived with her mother's sister in London. Her mother came from a wealthy pureblood family who objected exceedingly to her marriage to Mr. Hale. Nevertheless, they took Margaret in for several years to "acquaint her with good wizarding society." Margaret had enjoyed the hustle and bustle of London, the art and culture of the capitol. But her heart longed for Helstone. And now that she had finally returned to her childhood home, she must leave it. Margaret sniffed quietly and blinked rapidly—her mother could not see her cry.

"Your tea, miss," Dixon squeaked alarmingly.

Margaret blinked, grasped the proffered cup, and beamed, albeit shakily, at the house-elf. "Thank you, Dixon. It was kind of you to bring me this." She knew, of course, that kindness did not enter into it. She had asked for tea; Dixon had prepared it. Regardless, Margaret clung to the belief that perhaps someday the elf would care for her.

But now, Dixon was staring at her expectantly, and Margaret realized she had not yet tasted her tea. She lifted it and sipped delicately, closing her eyes. She was convinced that tea was a branch of magic all its own. It had restorative powers that even St. Mungo's did not possess. She grinned—rather foolishly, she now realized—at that thought. Margaret glanced up, hoping no one had seen her momentary grin. Dixon had left the room, and Mrs. Hale sat, or rather slumped, in a seat.

"Mama, are you well?" In truth, she looked ashen. Margaret had never seen her look so ill. Perhaps it was the move, the thought of leaving their home. Surely it couldn't be... No, she would not think of that. She would never think of that. It did no good to dwell on disasters that had not yet, nor ever would, occur. "Do you need me to fix a meal? We have some cheese and bread, and the garden has lovely—"

"I am fine, Margaret," Mrs. Hale replied hoarsely. When she saw her daughter's incredulous look, she smiled. "Truly. Do not trouble yourself with worry on my account. All your energy should be spent in packing, my dear."

Margaret nodded, still unconvinced. She glanced at her trunk, still half-full, then back at her mother. "I cannot yet finish. I wish to spend these last few hours cherishing my home, not packing away my clothes. I shall miss Helstone with all my heart." Her voice broke and she turned back to the window, trying to hide her tears.

Margaret heard the rustle of skirts, then felt her mother's soft touch on her arm. "None of us desire to leave this place; I least of all." Margaret buried her head on her mother's shoulder, weeping freely. Mrs. Hale stroked her daughter's dark hear and whispered soothingly, "We must make the best of the time we have left. Go, smell the roses, walk the grounds. I shall have Dixon pack your things."

"Thank you. Oh, thank you, Mama. You do not know how much this means to me. I—"

Mrs. Hale smiled teasingly. "Daughter, do not waste the precious time you have. Out with you, silly thing!"

Upon reflection, Margaret knew that her exit from the room would not have been considered ladylike in most circles. But her joy at roaming the grounds one last time could not be contained. She bounded from the room, all smiles, light, and happiness. She could drink in the perfume of the roses and lean against the aged trees once more. Suddenly, her prospects seemed a little less bleak. Perhaps she would not mind the North, after all.


	2. A Long Journey

People milled about the platform, talking and laughing, filling the train station with an unholy din. Margaret wove her trolley in-between the mass of people, dodging children, loose pets, and the occasional house elf. The Hale family had reached Platform 9 ¾ uneventfully, thanks chiefly to Mr. Hale's quick thinking. Dixon had been spotted by a Muggle, but after a quick Confundus charm, all was forgotten. Dixon, none the worse for the shock, was currently fretful. "Miss Margaret should not be dealing with her own luggage. It is not decent for a young lady, even in this day and age. Luggage is house elf's work, Mistress."

Margaret continued walking, pretending not to hear the shrill voice. In truth, she hated burdening the house elf with tasks she could perform herself. She did not need to have a house elf wait on her hand and foot. She wished to treat Dixon as an equal, as unpopular as that desire might be. Regardless, pushing a trolley enabled her to forget, for the moment, that she was leaving her home. Her morning had been difficult enough already.

* * *

Margaret had awoken to uncharitable sunlight. It slanted mercilessly through her window, straight into her eyes. She sighed, reaching for the wand that rested on her bedside table, and lazily flicked the shades closed with a simple charm. Now that the room was pleasantly dark, Margaret rolled over and pulled her sheet closer to her. She could feel herself drifting back to oblivion, slowly and gently ebbing away from consciousness.

"Miss? It is nearly nine and we must depart soon. Are you awake?" Dixon's squeak, which was mildly alarming at the best of times, caused Margaret to jerk awake violently. She snapped open her eyes, trying to focus them on something, anything. Her trunk. They were leaving Helstone.

Margaret sat up, gathered herself, then walked to the door. "Dixon," she murmured through the wood, "Could you make me some tea?"

"Certainly, miss."

"Thank you." Dixon shuffled down the corridor, and Margaret leaned against the door. They were going away. She had hoped that the move had been a dream, a joke, anything but what it was. Her new life was beginning, but she could find no joy in the prospect.

She at least needed a keepsake, a remembrance of Helstone. And what memento better than a rose? All her life she had cherished Helstone's unusual yellow roses. They were the soft yellow of butter, until the light shone through them. The simple roses were then transformed into a bright, almost magical, gold. Margaret could remember burying her face in them and reveling in their fragrance countless times.

She picked up her wand, running her finger over its smooth surface. If she enchanted a rose, perhaps it could grow, even in the harsh North. She turned, stepping to her window, and throwing it open. The cool morning breeze caressed her face and she smiled, breathing in the softly perfumed air. One year, for her birthday, her father planted a rosebush underneath her window. She bent over and plucked a rose, gently turning it over in her hand. She set it on the windowsill and summoned a small wooden box. Gently, Margaret placed the rose in the box, closing the lid and sealing it with a protective enchantment. She sighed, and smiled to herself. Now she could cherish this small part of her childhood home in Hogsmeade.

Now, to dress.

* * *

Smoke billowed through the platform, the harsh metallic sound of train against track tearing Margaret from her remembrances. The scarlet Hogwarts Express pulled into the station, and despite herself, Margaret had to smile. It was beautiful indeed, the red paint gleaming brightly in the afternoon light. She could hear her father exclaim admiringly, "What a train, my love! Just think, in the space of a few short hours, we will be in our new home. What better way to arrive than this magnificent—"

His words were drowned out by the whistle as the train ground to a halt. As the doors swung open, the crowd of primarily school-aged wizards began to board, lifting their luggage and stepping quickly into the compartments. Margaret was pressed forwards, and for a moment lost sight of her parents. Her stomach turned; panic closing her throat. She glimpsed her mother int the sea of humanity, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. She could think of nothing worse than being stranded in some strange place, lost and alone, with no family to comfort her. Her morbidity indulged for the moment, she boarded the train. Moving quickly along the wood-paneled passages, Margaret soon found an empty compartment. She stowed her luggage with a flick of her wand, seating herself in a window seat.

"You look very comfortable, Margaret. I am glad; you seemed so pale this morning."

She looked up at the sound of her father's voice, smiling gently. "I do feel very peaceful. Perhaps it is all the noise."

He chuckled, sitting down across from her. "Yes, the station was crowded. But what can you expect with the beginning of a new school year?" He looked out the window at the mass of students still filing into the train. "Do you think any of them will wish to learn Ancient Runes?"

Margaret looked at her hands. "Truthfully, not many. But the few students you have will be so attentive as to make up for it."

"Margaret, you always know how to cheer me. I am excited to teach. It brings me back to my school days, when I was eleven. I remember when I was sorted into Ravenclaw. How thrilled and proud I was. You will laugh at my silliness, I know—boarding this train almost makes me feel young again."

"I would never laugh at you, Papa."

Mrs. Hale swept into the compartment, followed closely by Dixon. She collapsed next to Mr. Hale with a sigh. "Thank heaven we are finally aboard. I did not know that I would make the train for the students' pushing and shoving. What do their parents teach them?"

"Mama, they are probably just over-excited. Even Father seems to be affected."

"That is no excuse for rudeness, Margaret." Mrs. Hale pulled a novel from her silk bag, signaling the end of the conversation.

Margaret sighed and turned to the window: gazing out, but not truly observing anything as the train pulled out from the station. Trees whipped past, a green blur that Margaret barely registered. How could she be surrounded by her family and yet feel so alone? Her mother had dozed off, her head on Mr. Hale's shoulder. He read his Plato, every so often bending his head to kiss her hair lightly. Margaret turned away, glancing out the window, not wanting to interrupt the moment. It would only serve to embarrass her father.

Margaret leaned her head against the wall of the compartment and closed her eyes. Perhaps if she could sleep a little, she would feel better. She drew a long, deep breath, trying to relax. Soon, the rocking motion of the train, combined with her emotional exhaustion, lulled her into a deep sleep.

* * *

"We shall be arriving at Hogwarts in a quarter of an hour," boomed a magically amplified voice, "All passengers please gather their belongs and prepare for arrival."

Margaret jerked awake, blinking groggily. How long had she slept? It was darkening outside, so it must have been at least two, maybe three hours. What had she been dreaming before she was so rudely interrupted? Margaret could remember that there had been snow, the sound of distant laughter, and someone's smile. She couldn't remember the face, but the smile—so warm, sincere, and... uncommon. She chided herself; it was only a dream. Still, that smile danced on the edges of her mind. To whom did it belong? And why did it trouble her so? The answer was so close, just beyond her a little ways. If only she could reach out and grasp it, she would know—

"Margaret?"

She opened her eyes, and slowly turned her gaze to the speaker. It was her father, who stared at her, brow furrowed. "Is something the matter, my love?"

What could she say? I was unsettled by something I dreamt; a thing I do not remember fully, but I long to recall? I am afraid of how my life will change in this new place? I cannot shake a vague feeling of unease? "Nothing, Papa. I am a little dazed, that is all. I am afraid sleep has addled my brain."

He chuckled, stooping to help her retrieve her things, "I cannot wait to show you our new home. We shall live in apartments above a tailor's shop, run by one Mr. Thornton. I have corresponded with him extensively, and I believe we shall get on well. Come along, Margaret, you don't want to be left behind!"


	3. An Unfortunate First Impression

**Author's Note:** So sorry everyone for the long wait. School is hectic, so it will probably be a week between updates. Hope you all enjoy. Thanks for reading.

* * *

Margaret did not know what to make of her new home. Granted, the small village of Hogsmeade was picturesque; snow gently fell on small stone houses, dusting everything in white. Lights from the windows glistened gold against the inky night, beckoning her with the promise of warm hearth and happy home.

Margaret shivered. She had not expected it to be so cold. She gripped her trunk more tightly and strode after her father and mother, trying not to mind the bustle of students. In their eagerness, they behaved like a pack of wild things, pushing and shoving in an attempt to keep up with the herd. Margaret emerged unscathed; the same could not be said for Dixon.

The house elf had been burdened with Mrs. Hale's baggage and, stumbling under the weight, she had been bowled over by some careless second-year. She emitted a terrified squeak, which was lost to all but Margaret's ear. Margaret turned round, and at the sight of the trampled Dixon, dropped her trunk and dashed to the house elf's side. She knelt next to Dixon."Are you hurt?"

"No miss. You must forgive my—my clumsiness. I should not have dropped Mistress's things in the snow. What will she say?"

"Dixon, nothing has been done to Mama's things that a _Reparo _charm will not fix. It is you that I worry about," Margaret paused, glancing at the purple bruises already rising on the house elf's knees, "Please join Mama and Papa. I will care for the luggage."

Dixon opened her mouth, but was cut short. "I will accept no argument, Dixon." Margaret gathered her mother's trunks, dusting the snow off brusquely. She felt bile rise in her throat at the very thought of Dixon's shame at falling. Margaret could feel the color rise in her pale cheeks, but hefted her mother's bags regardless.

How could anyone feel at fault for dropping mere belongings? Especially after being run over by a mob of students? Dixon could not be blamed for any part of the episode, but she was still wracked by guilt. How was this just? Not one student had stopped to check on the house elf—for the very reason that she was a house elf. Margaret felt anger bubbling in her chest at the very thought. How could anyone disregard the suffering of another simply because they were different?

Margaret reached her family, setting down her mother's bags, then walking back for her own forgotten trunk. Even several paces away, she could hear Mr. and Mrs. Hale consoling Dixon, who was apologizing endlessly in a shrill, nervous tone. Margaret grasped her wand. "Wingardium Leviosa." Her trunk hovered a few feet above the ground, gently making its way to the Hales, guided by the occasional flick of Margaret's wand.

* * *

Once the family had recovered from Dixon's unfortunate accident, all that needed to be done was find their new home. This proved to be no easy task. Her father, regardless of extensive correspondence, had neglected to ask the address of the shop. It was left to Margaret to investigate while her parents refreshed the down-trodden Dixon in the local tea room. Margaret finally located the tailoring shop in a back alleyway. It was dark, imposing, and gloomy amidst all the brightly shining houses that surrounded it.

No lights glimmered within, but when Margaret finally gathered the courage to knock, the door swung open almost instantly. A tall, stern, middle-aged women in balck dress stood in the doorway. "The shop is closed. Come back in the morning." Her thick Northern accent grated on Margaret's ears, so much so that it took her a moment to register the words.

She stammered, "I-I am n-not a customer." She drew herself up, continuing with more dignity. "I am Miss Margaret Hale, my father has spoken with Mr. Thornton. We are to be his new tenants."

"Ah, I see. He told me to expect you earlier." The woman looked down her nose imperiously at Margaret and smirked. "I did not expect you to be such a _fine_ lady." Margaret blinked, shocked at her biting tone. She had known this strange woman for two minutes, Margaret did not even know her name, and already the woman seemed determined to hate her. The women stepped back from the doorway, gesturing that Margaret should come in. "I am Mrs. Thornton. Your rooms are upstairs. I assume your family is coming."

"Actually, Mrs. Thornton, I must go and fetch them. My father misplaced the address of your husband's establishment, and sent me to find the shop."

Mrs. Thornton drew back as if slapped, glaring ferociously at Margaret. She hissed, "My _son_, Mr. Thornton, runs this place. He is one of the most respected businessmen and professors in this community; it is a wonder your father did not find out this address by asking any person in the village."

Margaret blushed a deep scarlet, but met Mrs. Thornton's gaze regardless. "We have come a long way, and we are all very tired. If you do not mind, I will fetch my family and bring them here." At the tall woman's nod, Margaret departed in the most dignified way she could manage, striding down the street with purpose. Mrs. Thornton, watching her go, muttered, "That one carries herself like the Queen of Sheba. Such breathtaking arrogance. No good will come of _her_, I swear."

Other than Mrs. Thornton, the Hale's move to their new residence was uneventful. Mr. Hale departed right after setting down his luggage, apparating to right outside the Hogwarts grounds. After all, he could not miss the welcome feast, since that was when he would be introduced to all the students. Margaret knew few of them would care about Ancient Runes, but her father still lived in hope, and she was the last person that wished to crush his dreams. Instead of musing about her father's prospects, however, she was forced to unpack.

The first thing she attended to was her Helstone rose. She undid the protective enchantment, then gingerly lifted the yellow rose from its case. It was intact, for the most part, and had only lost a few petals. Soon, her golden rose rested in a vase by her bedside, next to a small stack of books. However satisfied she was by her small room, Margaret could not feel the same way about the rest of the apartment.

Their new home was stark to say the least. The apartment contained three bedrooms, a small kitchen, servant's quarters, and a drawing room with a goodly-sized fireplace. But it was not the lack of rooms that bothered Margaret, it was the wallpaper. It was dreary, dank, and smelled of mold. Mrs. Hale commented, "It looks as if the room were decorated for a funeral, rather than for a family."

Margaret nodded, "If only it were decorated with a few flowers, or some brighter colors." Unluckily, Mrs. Thornton walked past just at that moment, which only served to reinforce her opinions of these _fine_ new tenants.

The furniture too, lacked the lovely and pleasant appearance of the Hale's old Helstone furnishings. It was dark and utilitarian, certainly less beautiful than Margaret was accustomed to. But she could bear it all, if only the wallpaper were changed.

* * *

It had been three days since the Hales moved, and Margaret was yet to see Mr. Thornton. She could hear him enter late at night and leave in the morning, but that was all. Her father had met him soon enough, the night of the feast. "Margaret, he is such an uncommon fellow. I had not realized how young he is, especially to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. I have only ever heard good things about his teaching and character, although his style might be a little brusque."

She was not burning with curiosity at the thought of their mysterious landlord like her mother. Indeed, her mother's interest in the man had only increased after their wallpaper magically changed overnight. The second day of their residence, Margaret awoke to brand-new wallpaper, a beautiful green and blue floral pattern. Needless to say, ever since that morning, Mrs. Hale had been pestering Margaret to introduce herself to Mr. Thornton. "You must give him our regard, tell him how grateful we are."

"Surely Papa can—"

"It must come from you. Mr. Thornton surely knows that your father pays no mind to how the wallpaper looks. The fact that he just _knew_ that we were unsatisfied, then changed everything without ceremony just proves you must be the one to thank him. Besides, your father is too busy at the school."

It was true. More students were taking Ancient Runes than Margaret had ever thought possible. Mr. Hale taught three classes, all of them full of bright, eager young witches and wizards. Margaret knew he also tutored a little during his off periods. He left for the school before breakfast, seldom came home for lunch, and was often late for dinner. However, his eyes shone brighter and his laugh was merrier than ever before. Margaret knew, deep in her soul, that he was at last happy, happier than she had seen him recently. That knowledge soothed her anxiety more than anything else, certainly more than altered wallpaper.

This afternoon, Mrs. Hale put together a basket lunch for Margaret to take to Mr. Hale. "I do not know if he even eats lunch regularly. I will not have everyone see my husband starving and think it is through some neglect of mine." She gently folded a cloth over the bread, cheese, sausage, tea, and biscuits she had packed

Margaret chuckled at her mother's joke, then grasped the basket with both hands. After a brief goodbye_, _she walked carefully down the stairs that connected the living room with the shop below, then traipsed through the open shop door into the street. The streets of Hogsmeade were almost empty, the chill of fall keeping most indoors. Even though it was afternoon, only a few small children were out playing. Margaret strode swiftly towards Hogwarts, almost marching. It was quite long walk, but the crisp air invigorated her, so she did not mind the distance.

Sooner than she thought possible, Margaret had reached the entrance to the forbidding castle, and was waved through. As soon as she stepped into Hogwarts, memories hit her like a wave. The sorting ceremony, celebrating with all the first years in the common room. Classes, homework, the smell of old parchment. How much she had missed it all... Her reminiscence must wait; her father's lunch was growing cold.

"Can you tell me the way to Professor Hale's study?"

"Sure, miss. You go through the Great Hall, up the stairs—be sure you take the really long one, not the short, that leads to... well, you don't want to know—walk about twenty paces to your left, go down the first hall you see, and it is the third door on the right, I think."

"Thank you." Margaret made her way to the Great Hall, striding through seemingly endless passages. How had she not gotten lost as a student? She did not wander around the school much, she did not have enough opportunity to do that. She only attended Hogwarts the one year. She did not feel keenly the loss to her education until now. What she would give to go back.

The sound of shouts echoed faintly through the corridor. She was nearing the Great Hall now, and ever step made the bellowed spells louder. What was going on? She rounded the corner, glimpsed the Great Hall, and gasped.

Bursts of light illuminated the hall, casting strange shadows on the faces of the students and teachers gathered there. Margaret stepped over the threshold and watched the spectacle in rapt fascination. Two students circled each other, wands out. One would cast a spell, the other, deflect it, or parry with a counter-curse. "Aguamenti!" a torrent of water shot from one student's wand, but it was dried by a swift shout of "Exaresco!"

Margaret had always heard of the Dueling Club, but she had never seen it before. It fascinated her. She drew hesitantly closer, until she was towards the front of the crowd. She smiled fondly, glancing around the room. For a moment, her eyes rested on a tall, dark-haired man standing quite near the opponents. Just as soon, her gaze was arrested by the duelers.

One, a small, flaxen-haired witch, flicked her wand with a cry of "Locomotor Wibbly!" The other sidestepped the curse with ease. He sneered, pointing his wand at her and snarled, "Confrin—"

"Protego!" A shield burst between the duelers, throwing them both back. The boy's spell hit the shield, exploding it in flames. The watching students screamed, racing towards the exit. The dark-haired man bounded towards the boy, wand in hand. He roared, "Do not play with magic you cannot control, boy!" Margaret watched in horror as the man punched the boy's face, knocking him to the ground, then stooped over him, hitting him twice more. Margaret gasped, eyes wide with fright. Only then was she aware of the deathly silence of the room. The man turned around, his blue eyes icy, "Get her out of here!"

A male teacher took her arm, guiding her forcefully out of the room. As soon as he let go of Margaret's arm, she ran from the Great Hall as swiftly as possible; half-flying, half-tripping up the stairs. Her heart was beating rapidly; the scene replaying itself in her head. Who could possibly treat a student so roughly, so cruelly? Surely he did not deserve such a beating for his foolishness. Margaret reached her father's door, tapping on it shakily. He opened it, beaming at her over his spectacles. His look altered when he saw her face. "Margaret, you look as if you have seen a ghost!"

"I just came from the Dueling Club. Father, you will never believe what I saw!"

"The Dueling Club, you say? Then you must have met Mr. Thornton. He is impossible to miss: he is tall, with dark hair, and blue eyes. Did you introduce yourself? Margaret, what is wrong?"


	4. No True Gentleman

_"__Get her out of here!"_ Eyes, icy and dark as the frozen lake she was standing upon, pierced her soul. She backed away, half-falling, half-running. Anything to escape those eyes. Snowflakes fell, biting her bare skin like fire. She tripped, falling back hard on the ice. The figure—looming dark against the whiteness, impossibly tall, unbelievably swift—strode towards her. Margaret tried to crawl backwards, scrabbling at the ice with numb fingers, but it was useless. He was at her side in a moment, stooped over her with a cruel smirk, and snarled, "_Goodbye,__ Miss Hale._" The ice broke underneath her, and suddenly she was falling, plunged into the icy depths of the lake.

Margaret awoke with a start, clutching the blankets close to her. She shivered, burying her head in her pillow. It was only a dream. And yet, the man was real; not only real, but her father's friend and the family's landlord. He might even be working in the shop below her at this very moment. Margaret whimpered, sitting up. She needed a distraction, something to calm her racing heart. A book. Luckily, next to her on the bedside table rested a mildly abused volume: Pascal's _Pens__é__es_. Margaret reached for it, gently caressing the tattered leather spine, letting it fall open to a highlighted portion.

She read the sentences aloud softly, trying to banish the demon still whirling about in her head, "We should not be able to say of a man, 'He is a mathematician,' or 'a preacher,' or 'eloquent'; but that he is 'a gentleman.' That universal quality alone pleases me. It is a bad sign when, on seeing a person, you remember his book. I would prefer you to see no quality till you meet it and have occasion to use it, for fear some one quality prevail and designate the man."

Margaret reflected on the passage, running her finger over the page absentmindedly. What higher compliment was there than being called a gentleman? To possess good manners, gentility, kindness, chivalry, and a general nobility of character—Margaret could think of no higher praise. Certainly Mr. Thornton possessed none of those qualities. She grinned mischievously at the thought, then banished it. It was not seemly to be unduly cruel to someone she barely knew. She would leave behavior like that to Mr. Thornton.

Margaret could feel drowsiness return, her eyelids drooped, and her thoughts began to slow. She set the book gingerly down, curling up once more underneath her blankets and succumbing to sleep once more. Mr. Thornton would not disturb her again this night. She would not allow it.

Dawn's rose fingers shone through the window, and Margaret stirred. She sat up, opening her eyes, and groggily welcomed the new day, despite the early hour. The terror of last night was gone, she had exorcised Mr. Thornton at last. Indeed, upon reflection, he had done nothing too terrible to her, other than torment her dreams. The memory of that icy gaze watching her slip below the surface—but it did not do to dwell upon the shadows of night. Margaret tossed off her blankets, stepping onto the cold wood floor. She shivered, reaching desperately for a shawl. Even the autumn was frigid here. Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, Margaret made her way to her trunk. She would get ready early so that she could walk with her father to Hogwarts. It would give him great pleasure, and she could do with the comfort of his presence. There was no fear that the light of day and a conversation with her father could not overcome. Even her worry about Fred. She cursed herself inwardly, rummaging violently among her skirts and stockings. Why did she have to think of that, of all things?

Some time later, Margaret tiptoed down the hall. Her brown skirt rustled quietly, but it was not loud enough to betray her. She did not want to wake Mother, or worse, Dixon. She alone would care for her father this morning. Making her way to the kitchen, despite the hindrance to stealth that was a squeaky wood floor, Margaret planned an exquisite surprise. She would prepare tea, complete with biscuits, light a fire, and be waiting for him in the drawing room when he awoke. She could read Shakespeare until then, of course.

She reached the kitchen, and soon the water in the kettle was bubbling merrily. Margaret selected a teapot, her favorite blue one with roses, spooned the leaves into the pot, then poured in the boiling water. She then selected a few biscuits, arranging them on a small plate. When that small task was finished, she set teapot, three cups—just in case Mother woke—and plate on a tray, which she then carried cautiously to the drawing room. Then, she set about building a fire.

Her plan was working perfectly. Although Father had not yet risen, Margaret sat by a merrily roaring fire, sonnets in hand, waiting. She smoothed back a strand of dark hair, concentrating on the Bard. Then, like music to her ears, she heard footsteps. Margaret sat bolt upright, gazing expectantly at the doorway to the room. It swung slowly open, revealing a bleary-eyed Mr. Hale.

Margaret stood, beaming radiantly. "Father! I made you some tea."

"Oh, thank you so much, my dear. I need some tea to warm my old bones. It is too cold for ancient fellows like myself."

"Papa," Margaret teased, "You are less ancient than Homer, if only by a little."

Mr. Hale chuckled sleepily and sat down in an armchair, grasping the proffered cup of tea. "What did I ever do to deserve an angel like you, Margaret?"

"Marry Mama."

He smiled and sipped. "My dear, this is delicious. Better than Dixon's, she makes it too sweet. It is just the thing to brace me for my morning walk."

Margaret shifted in her seat, clasping her hands nervously. "Papa, would you mind terribly if I were to walk with you to the school?"

"It is very cold out," he glimpsed her eager expression over the top of his spectacles. "Of course you may, but dress warmly. I will not have my only daughter catch a cold her first week in her new home."

Margaret dashed, in the most ladylike way imaginable, to her room. She snatched up a cape and a hat, then bounded out of her room. She entered the drawing room out of breath, her face shining with anticipation, only to find a familiar figure standing in the doorway. "M-mr. Thornton." She curtsied, her face falling.

"Ms. Hale." He bowed low, and she was relieved to find that his gaze was not on her, but the floor. He was much less intimidating by the light of day. He was dressed in black from head to toe, save a white cravat peeking from underneath the collar of his robes. Mr. Thornton still was tall, but not monstrously so. His voice was deep and low, but more importantly, totally devoid of the cold rage it possessed earlier. Still, she could not forget those words.

"Margaret, I've invited Mr. Thornton on our walk. It would not be kind to make him arrive alone," Mr. Hale chuckled.

Margaret blanched at these words, but recovered her composure quickly.

Mr. Thornton glanced at her face, then at her father. He murmured, "I am afraid, Mr. Hale, that I gave Ms. Hale rather a fright yesterday. I reproached a student, and in my anger, her as well. She did not deserve my unkindness." He stepped toward Margaret, gazing at her earnestly, "Ms. Hale, please accept my apologies. It will not happen again."

It seemed she did not recover speedily enough to escape Mr. Thornton's notice. Margaret nodded, replying softly, "All is forgiven, Mr. Thornton." It was almost the truth. She had forgiven his anger towards her, it was the transgression of a moment. But his rage towards the student still rankled her.

Mr. Hale smiled dotingly, "Now that matter is taken care of, shall we proceed?" He held out his arm, and Margaret grasped it, still avoiding Mr. Thornton's gaze. The company proceeded out the door, down the stairs, and to the street below, Margaret wishing all the while should could just disapparate. Although Mr. Thornton strode next to her father, chatting spiritedly about Plato and Aristotle, she felt ill at ease.

As if he sensed this, Mr. Thornton inquired, "What books do you like to read, Ms. Hale?"

She stammered, "I-I do like Plato, but I much prefer Shakespeare, or Greek Mythology. I also enjoy Pascal, Descartes, and the occasional theatrical."

"It seems your daughter possesses your good taste, Mr. Hale. I must congratulate you."

Mr. Hale laughed, "It is better that she possess that than my sight. I am blinder than a bat; I fear."

Mr. Thornton smiled at this, chuckling quietly. Margaret could not believe the transformation. His smile changed his face as much as his rage had the day before; softening the hard planes, and revealing sparkling teeth. She thought she could, perhaps, get along with this Thornton.

"Still, your sight has not hindered your studies, Mr. Hale. You should count yourself fortunate that you are such a wise man."

Margaret grinned teasingly at her father, "He certainly is the wisest gentleman I know—there is a distinction."

Mr. Thornton nodded, "There is, but to me, it is not quite what you imagine. _I take it that "gentleman" is a term that only describes a person in his relation to others; but when we speak of him as "a man" , we consider him not merely with regard to his fellow men, but in relation to himself, - to life – to time – to eternity. I am rather weary of this word "gentlemanly" which seems to me to be often inappropriately used, and often too with such exaggerated distortion of meaning, while the full simplicity of the noun "man", and the adjective "manly" are unacknowledged."_

Margaret turned, gazing at him with sudden curiosity. Although she did not yet approve of him, she admired his candor. She turned away, watching the path once more, mulling his thoughts over.

Clearly, Mr. Thornton mistook her silence for scorn, and he continued, "It is obvious we disagree, Ms. Hale, but as we have almost reached the castle, can we part on amicable terms?" He offered his hand, and Margaret hastily bowed her head. His eyes narrowed, and he brought his hand back as if she had burned him. Mr. Thornton nodded to Mr. Hale, then turned, striding swiftly up the few metres of pathway and into the castle.

Margaret turned to her father, shocked at his behavior. "Did I say something to offend him, Papa?"

"It is custom here to shake hands when a man offers his." Mr. Hale smiled at his daughter's worried face, "I will explain your ignorance of the custom to him. He is not an unreasonable man, Margaret. He knows sense when he sees it."

Margaret walked with her father to the door, kissing him on the cheek. When he disappeared into the castle, she turned and made her way back down the snowy path to home. What disagreeable ending to an otherwise lovely morning! No matter how hard she tried, Thornton's look of reproach persisted in her mind, even after she reached the tailor's shop once more.


	5. Misunderstandings

Hannah Thornton sat at the counter, idly running her hand over the neatly piled bolts of fabric, humming contentedly to herself. She, like her son, had been up since the crack of dawn: he to prepare lessons, she to ready the shop for opening. John usually cleaned the shop before closing it for the night, but he did not have a woman's or, more importantly, a mother's eye. Hannah could spot a speck of dirt from a mile away, even if she could not magic it away.

Magic was a blessing that Mrs. Thornton did not possess, but also a curse she did not have to bear. She had been born a squib. While many would pity her, Hannah knew that her lack of magic had made her strong. She saw how magic affected wizards. It made them power-hungry and worse: lazy.

"Magic is no substitute for hard work." Over and again Hannah had recited this maxim to her son, and later to her daughter. But John was the only one who ever heeded her words. Mrs. Thornton was proud of him, but in all fairness, she had much to be proud of. All he achieved was due to the work of his hands, the sweat of his brow. He had supported the Thorntons through the very worst, and now the family was finally reaping the fruits of his labor.

Hannah's fond recollections were rudely interrupted when, through the large front window, she spotted Miss Hale approaching. Her eyes were downcast, but despite the humble expression, Mrs. Thornton sensed her arrogance. Who did Miss Hale think she was, coming to Hogsmeade and carrying herself like a queen?

Margaret paused, and for a brief moment, Mrs. Thornton felt a stab of pity for the girl. Margaret Hale looked so lost and confused. Despite her prejudice against Miss Hale, Hannah could not ignore the pain in the girl's eyes. Margaret Hale was alone, more or less, in a strange place. Certainly her mother was not much company, and her father taught all day. If only Fanny was a suitable companion for Miss Hale. But her daughter was entirely too silly, and too consumed with study at Hogwarts for the regal Miss Hale. Alas, it fell to Hannah to provide their young lodger with whatever counsel she needed.

* * *

Margaret opened the door, stepping cautiously inside, and hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Mrs. Thornton, I did not expect to see you here."

The words rankled Hannah. Perhaps in the South fine ladies did not work, but here in the North women were expected to be as strong as men. She replied bitterly, "I work when my son is teaching."

Margaret shifted uncomfortably. "You must work a great deal. My father often does not get home until late, and he has fewer classes than Mr. Thornton." She paused, looking at Hannah's face. "If you need any help with the shop, I could help. I know a little about sewing and current fashion. I'm sure I could cut fabric, or arrange the bolts, or clean." She looked away, blushing a deep red.

Mrs. Thornton stared at the girl. She could not discern whether this was audacity or kindness on Margaret's part. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for your offer. But I probably will not need your help."

Margaret nodded, then turned and walked up the stairs. Hannah Thornton watched her go with just a twinge of regret. She did not need to be so harsh with Miss Hale. Perhaps her intentions were good, after all.

Margaret closed the door behind her with an angry huff of vexation. "That woman! She is determined to misunderstand me."

Her mother, who was lounging on the couch, turned towards the door, setting her knitting down in her lap. "Who?"

Margaret sat down in a chair with a sigh. "Mrs. Thornton. It is as if the very sight of me boils her blood. I do not understand what I have done."

"You have done nothing. It is because we come from the South and my family is pureblood. The challenges we have had to face do not matter to a woman like that. She does not understand the prejudice against your father's muggle family. How can she? She has doubtless lived her whole life in this town; she knows nothing of the world outside Hogsmeade. I pity her, Margaret, for being too short-sighted to see you for more than your birth and upbringing."

Margaret smiled shyly, picking up the sonnets she left carelessly on the table a mere hour ago. "I am sorry I deserted you this morning. I wished to walk with Papa to Hogwarts."

Mrs. Hale waved her hand dismissively. "Think nothing of it, my dear. I am glad that you try and keep his spirits up. Heaven only knows he could use any comfort in this God-forsaken place."

Margaret's brow furrowed. "Mama, you are being too harsh. I am sure, in time, that we will make a home for ourselves here. Hogsmeade cannot be as terrible as you make it sound. I cannot believe that any place could be entirely deserted by God." She ran a finger down the spine of the sonnets, her lips curving in a radiant smile. "Besides that, Papa seems happier now than ever before. Why, this morning he was talking endlessly with Mr. Thornton about anything and everything. He loves teaching and pursuing knowledge. Hogwarts is just the place for him."

Mrs. Hale nodded, leaning back into the cushions of the couch. "Perhaps, but, my dear, you must accept that it may not be the place for me." She closed her eyes with a sigh. "Oh dear, I did not mean that as selfishly as it sounded. Let me try again. I fear that I will never be at home in this town, no matter how long I live here. Some of us, Margaret, have such strong connections to a place that, once leaving it, it feels like a betrayal to make any other haven our home."

"But Mama, ought we to live in the present? I do not wish to go through life robbed of all the present offers because all I can see is the past."

Mrs. Hale chuckled at this, murmuring, "You are just like your father, Margaret. He too used to sit with me for hours, debating philosophy. I fear you have all his intellect, none of my ambition, and a sense of justice all your own."

Margaret smiled. "Daring, nerve, and chivalry—with a healthy dose of ending injustice—is what sets us Gryffindors apart."

* * *

John Thornton could not remember a day he was more distracted. He was as a dreamer, who, though awake, merely plodded through his life while still ensnared in his imaginings. He taught classes, ate with his coworkers, and corrected homework, but all the while his mind was elsewhere engaged. What had he done? It had been going so well. He played the scene over and over, analyzing his every word, every expression that flitted across her lovely face. It was to no avail. There was no logic in it, at least none he could see. One moment, she was beaming, the next, her smile hidden by shadow. What had he said; what had he done?

Mr. Thornton sat at his desk, pupil's papers scattered across the dark wood surface. His study was small, so he had painstakingly organized papers in boxes or drawers. There were few adornments, Thornton considered himself a practical man, in possession of a functional workspace. A study not cluttered with frivolous ornaments was the most useful, after all. A gas lamp burned merrily, Thornton's sole source of light. By day, of course, he would open his window and let the sunlight stream in. But now, it was night. Time to go home.

He stood up, pushing in his chair, and sweeping his coat and hat from their resting places. He flicked his wand, extinguishing the light as he closed the door brusquely behind him. He would think no more of Miss Hale. Not the way the chill wind swept her hair off her noble brow, nor the way her eyes sparkled with amusement. John Thornton would not dwell on her, not even on her smile. Not even the brief second she smiled at him.

He strode fiercely along the corridor, as if by walking quickly he could outrun the thought of her. Why did Miss Hale haunt him so? Was it her look, her manner, her soul that drove him to distraction? He could not say, but this he knew: from the first moment he saw her, even in the midst of his wrath, he was bewitched. Miss Hale's fear, her shock at his treatment of the Patterson boy had revealed her character to him. Her innocence, her sweetness, her anger at perceived injustice were as plain to him as her beauty and nobility. How he wished to have made a better impression. The look of fear that crossed her face at the very sight of him pierced him deeper than any blade could.

Already Mr. Thornton was halfway down the stairs, so swept away by his thoughts that he almost missed a step. Startled into clarity, he managed to navigate the Great Hall, cross the threshold of the great school itself, and even step onto the pathway before he thought of her again.

It was obvious Miss Hale thought he was no gentleman. This did not bother him. He would not affect foppish, genteel, country ways like so many others. What rankled him was that she thought him no man at all. Certainly Miss Hale did not consider him worthy of a handshake, the most basic sign of respect one could bestow. He breathed a sigh of remorse, harshly blowing out a cloud of breath as he trudged along the main street of Hogsmeade. The worst part of it was that he had given her no reason to respect him. Surely no reason that he himself had given her. Would that she were not doomed to misunderstand him, and he, her.

Mr. Thornton paused, staring at the exterior of his shop. Luckily, his feet knew his way well enough to guide him while his mind was occupied by thoughts of Miss Hale. Here he had other concerns, greater duties that would drive out the thought of her. Light poured like liquid gold from the display windows. Through the glass, he saw his mother standing at the counter, helping a customer. She was saying something while cutting fabric, and John smiled at the sight. Even now, after all these years, he was her first concern. Hannah Thornton glanced up, and met his eye. Her face, which at almost all times looked as if it were carved from weathered stone, crinkled in a beaming smile.

John Thornton pulled the door open, and stepped inside. He greeted the customers, cheerily discussing the merits of fine cloth. Here he was a master indeed. He knew all about the procurement, manufacture, and distribution of most textiles. From a young age, all he wanted in life was to own a mill in the North. He knew wizards did not do such things, but he did not care. Soon his customers were off, laden with several yards of fine cotton. John watched them go, then turned and smiled at his mother. "How was your day?"

"Fine. Fanny came home in a fit. Apparently she has nothing fine enough for the girls in her house."

John chuckled at this. "You mean she has nothing finer or, more likely, gaudier than the others. What shall we do with her?"

Hannah sighed hollowly and spoke bitterly, "I had hoped you would rub off a little more on your sister. She could do with industry, self-discipline, or at least some semblance of them. I am afraid I have raised a very silly child."

"Perhaps we could introduce her to Miss Hale. They have already met, though I think neither know it. Miss Hale witnessed the last incident at the dueling club."

Hannah Thornton hissed, "They better expel that Patterson child before he hurts another student. I am glad you were there to protect your sister. That boy deserved a beating tenfold what you gave him."

"Miss Hale certainly does not think so."

Hannah's eyes flashed with fire. "How could Miss Hale pass judgment on you guarding your family? How could she ask you to refrain from your brotherly duties?"

John Thornton smirked, more at himself than his mother's words. "I have not told Miss Hale that the student he attacked was my sister. I shall, but I have not found the time."

He sat down heavily in a chair, resting his elbow on the counter. His eyes were shut tight, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "She must think the worst of me, Mother."

Hannah Thornton glared disapprovingly at the wall, as if it were the fine lady that hurt her son so. "Why should the opinion of one too foolish to see your merit bother you?"

John sighed, and though it was but a quiet expression of despair, it rang in Hannah's ears. "Because her opinion matters a great deal to me." The words seemed forced, as if she had wrenched them from him.

"You care for her? You have had no more than five conversations with her. For Heaven's sake, John, I have had more conversations with her than you have." Hannah meant her questions kindly, motherly at worst, but at John's flinch she knew she wounded him.

He groaned quietly, "And yet those brief interactions are all I need. You do not understand Miss Hale, Mama. She is good; not because society demands it, but because it is her nature to be so." He paused, eyes still clamped shut. "I wish you would like her, mother. She is a kind woman. At least introduce her to Fanny. Perhaps Miss Hale's modesty and gentle ways will impact Fanny in a way my better qualities have not."

Hannah Thornton looked searchingly at her son for several long moments. He was deathly serious, which unsettled her more than she would like to admit. "I shall, if you wish it."

* * *

**Author's Note: **So sorry this took so long. The last month has been crazy! Thank you so much, eknight07, for the lovely reviews. I hope this chapter answered some questions, and I made up for the delay with the length. I promise Thornton will be less broody in the next chapter. Perhaps we shall also meet a new character... Until then, I hope you enjoy!


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